Após o sucesso da primeira colaboração, onde contou das dificuldades de adaptação ao Rio de Janeiro, meu amigo made in the USA Seth Miller nos presenteia com uma nova história. Desta vez, Seth relembra seus tempos de faculdade no Alasca, quando estudava, pescava e matava ursos… espera aí, matava ursos??? Bom, leiam a história que vale a pena. Desta vez, deixei o original em inglês em primeiro, porque realmente ele é muito melhor que a minha versão. Apesar de eu dominar a língua, e já ter até dado aulas no Berlitz, descobri que é muito difícil fazer versões de textos como esses, com metáforas e afins. Tem coisas que realmente funcionam melhor em inglês. Isso não quer dizer que a versão brazuca não valha a pena… então, se você não domina o idioma da rainha, pule essa parte cheia de Y, K, Ws e letras dobradas e leia a história no bom e velho português.
Seth em uma pescaria em Kodiac, Alasca
An Alaskan Solution – by Seth Miller
'Go ahead, make my day'
It was my second year in Alaska. I was 20. My classes at the University of Alaska in the town of Fairbanks would begin the following week. I had already moved into my dorm room and on this particular day I went down to the college bookstore to purchase an irritating amount of overpriced engineering textbooks. Upon my return to my residents’ hall I set my $500 bag of books down behind me as I pondered what snack to purchase from one of the dispensing machines in the commons. Deciding on a Snickers bar I turned to leave only to find I wouldn’t need to lug my heavy books any farther. They were gone. Stolen books are not something a poor college student has any appreciation for and, as was my only option at the time, I found myself bounding down hallways and across campus in attempt to hunt down the dirty crook who had deemed my assets worth taking advantage of. Two hours later, in an angry sweat, I concluded my futile quest with the slam of my dorm room door and a slew of profanities that could paint a wall red.
I was angry. And I knew I had to get out. I had to escape the confines of this cheating and conniving world. I had to get out into the grand wilderness—the thing I came to Alaska for in the first place. Grabbing my fishing pole, the half melted Snickers bar, and my 44’ revolver I bought off some old guy (away from the snooping eyes of government regulation I proudly add), I headed out my door. My college sat on the edge of the world…forest and tundra for hundreds of miles northward, captured only by the civilization of the Purdue Bay oil rigs of the Arctic Ocean. Hiking hastily through millions of small, bent spruce trees, like a forest of old people, I finally came to my favorite fishing spot: the remains of an old mountain cut in two by the forceful thrust of a dark stream—a melted diamond, crystal clear, and beautiful. By then, the giant rolling shapes of the Alaskan interior had put me back in my place of insignificance and I was calmer. There was no one to be mad at out here. Unhooking my line from my pole I began to cast.
It was still. The little birds that flew through the air quietly confirmed that I was indeed alone out here. Positioning myself against a white birch tree I casted and watched my line smoothly glide through the trickling glitter between the rocks. Pulling my lure from the water I marveled at the fact that fish actually found themselves willing to bite such an ugly thing. I really wasn’t expecting to catch anything but as expectation always has it, it wasn’t long before I was fighting my first fish. And it was big. From the glowing white shape of it, I knew I had myself a handsome, silver salmon—one of the best tasting fish in the world. My pole bending towards the water, my arms tense but steady, I pulled, reeled, fought, let out some line, pulled, reeled, fought, and let out some more line. Problem was, with each foot of line I reeled in, I had to let out two more in order to keep the fish from breaking it. The fish was strong and it was getting away around a bend in the river. In a desperate attempt to avoid this from happening, I kicked off my shoes and, with socks on, jumped into the shallow river. Immediately I questioned the wisdom of my move as the icy water clawed at my legs. But the fish was getting away and I was determined to bring it in.
The fish moved quickly using the river current to propel itself as far away from my lustful grasp as possible. Around the bend in the river it went. Terrified that my line might get caught in the brush lining the shore I ran through the icy water wincing as the spray soaked my shirt—my pole in a precarious “U” shape. Suddenly my line went slack. I let a high pitched squeal of alarm (I only speak of here out of my reverence for comedy) as I watched my fishing rod spring to its original, straight shape. My head down, I slowly shuffled through the water reeling in my droopy line hoping that the fish at least left me the dignity of my lure. As I rounded the bend in the river I suddenly found myself paralyzed. There was my fish. It was still on my line. But it was hovering above the water. It hovered there…in the mouth of giant grizzly. What strikes me funny now thinking back is that my first thought wasn’t “run for your life” or “shit, I’m going to die,” rather the very first thought I had involved the same ping of irritation I had when I realized my books had been stolen. I was just mad that this uncharitable bear wanted to claim ownership of my prize. Of course it took but a second for my thoughts to revert back to the more appropriate: “shit, I’m going to die.”
There I was. Like a shivering, undercompensated hero holding a pathetic excuse for a sword, I stood staring at this giant beast eating the fish I now gladly presumed a proper penance for the sin of my presence. Dilemma was, the bear didn’t recognize I was there yet. Knowing that startling this creature would not be wise, I slowly backed one little step at a time Terrified that my throbbing heart beat would give me away, I made my way towards a bush on the shore I hoped could hide me from view. The funny thing with Alaskan streams however is that there are lots of rocks. And some of these slippery little bastards enjoy the rare, millennial opportunity to trip up any unwary victim that dares tread on them. Today was my lucky day of course and down I went with a splash. The rest is pretty much a blur. I remember standing up. The bear, now knowing I was there, looked directly at me—its body inflating with tense muscles, eyes dark and red. I turned to run, but since I was running knee deep against the current of an angry river I found myself in one of those dreams where no matter how much effort, panic or perseverance I put into my forward movement, my speed could barely rival that of McDonald’s biggest fan. Hearing the grunting momentum behind me I turned to meet my destroyer…until I remembered my 44’ resting on my hip. Clawing at the snap I pull the heavy piece of metal up, pointed at the spray of water, fur and claws bounding towards me…and fired.
I only remember firing twice, but looking at my cylinder a day later I confirmed that, yes, I had fired all six bullets. I don’t remember much about the actual event. Just a beating heart, panting, coldness, and collapsing on the floor of my dorm room some time later. I had gone into shock…the kind where your body takes over for you in times of emergency. I survived; or at least someone did the surviving for me. Perhaps shock is when God takes over your body for a while—steers your life so you don’t crash. I don’t know. But when I gathered the courage to go back out to the river two days later to collect my shoes and fishing pole, I found the leftovers of my actions in the form of a bloody mountain of dark hair and sharp teeth. Bullet right through the left eye. And let me tell you, bullets usually don’t stop the charging mass of a bear…their skull is too thick and muscle too heavy. Now, while staring at my kill that day, I could have reminisced about my life, about why I was saved or what purpose I now had to fulfill, but instead I whipped out my knife and after a couple hours of novice hacking I had myself a crudely cut bear hide. Next day, I sold these highly illegal remains to an old, retired Eskimo friend of mine for $500 which, as logic would have it, funded the re-buying of my stolen textbooks. And that’s pretty much the end of this tale. Moral being: there is a solution to every problem—even if you have to kill an Alaskan grizzly to find one.
Jeitinho do Alasca – por Seth Miller
Eu estava com 20 anos e era o meu segundo ano no Alasca minhas aulas na Universidade do Alaska, na cidade de Fairbanks, iam começar na semana seguinte. Eu havia me mudado para um novo dormitório e, neste dia em particular, fui à livraria da universidade para comprar uma quantidade absurda de caríssimos livros de engenharia. Ao voltar para o saguão dos residentes, coloquei a minha bolsa com US$ 500 em livros atrás de mim enquanto pensava no lanche que iria comprar em uma dessas maquininhas. Após decidir por uma barra de Snickers, virei-me para ir embora e descobri que não teria mais que carregar meus pesados livros… eles haviam sumido. Ter os livros roubados não é algo que um pobre estudante aprecia muito. Como única opção na época, quando vi estava percorrendo os corredores e cruzando o campus na tentativa de encontrar o pivete que achou que as minhas coisas valiam a pena ser levadas. Duas horas depois, suado e chateado, conclui minha busca fútil batendo a porta do meu dormitório com força e soltando uma enxurrada de palavrões que envergonhariam muita gente.
Eu estava com raiva. E sabia que tinha que sair daquele lugar. Eu tinha que escapar deste mundo corrupto e conivente. Eu tinha que fugir da civilização – o grande motivo para eu ter vindo para o Alasca. Peguei minha vara de pescar, minha barra de Snicker já meio derretida e o meu revólver calibre 44´ que eu comprei de algum coroa (longe dos olhos intrometidos do governo, posso dizer orgulhosamente), e segui o meu caminho. Minha universidade ficava na fronteira com o fim do mundo. Florestas e tundras por centenas de quilômetros ao norte, onde a única civilização eram os trabalhadores dos poços de petróleo da Purdue Bay, no Oceano Ártico. Caminhando apressadamente através de milhões de galhos e troncos de árvores, finalmente cheguei ao meu local de pesca favorito: os restos de uma velha montanha cortada ao meio pela força das águas escuras de um córrego, como um diamante derretido, transparente, e lindo. Neste momento, a geografia do Alasca, com suas formas gigantes, já haviam me colocado de volta ao meu devido lugar de insignificância e eu estava mais calmo. Não havia ninguém para eu ter raiva. Soltei o anzol da vara e comecei a pescar.
Tudo estava calmo. Os pequenos pássaros que voavam silenciosamente confirmavam que eu realmente estava sozinho ali. Apoiado em uma árvore, lancei o anzol e assisti enquanto a linha descia com a corrente que serpenteava as rochas. Ao puxar a minha isca para fora d´água, me maravilhei com o fato de os peixes realmente sentirem vontade de morder aquela coisa nojenta. Eu realmente não tinha expectativa de pegar nenhum peixe, mas não demorou muito para eu pescar o primeiro. E era grande. Pelo formato e o brilho branco, eu sabia que havia pego um belo salmão prateado – um dos peixes mais saborosos do mundo. Com a minha vara empenando em direção à água, meus braços tensos, mas firmes, eu puxei, enrolei, briguei, dei um pouco de linha, e puxei, enrolei, briguei, e dei mais um pouco de linha. O problema era que a cada metro de linha que eu puxava, eu tinha que soltar dois para que o peixe não a arrebentasse. O peixe era forte e estava escapando. Em uma tentativa desesperada de evitar que isso acontecesse, eu tirei os meus sapatos com um chute e, ainda de meias, pulei na água rasa. Imediatamente questionei a inteligência do meu ato, enquanto a água congelante subia pelas minhas pernas. Mas o peixe estava escapando, e eu estava determinado a pescá-lo.
O peixe se mexia rapidamente usando a corrente do rio para se afastar o máximo possível de mim. E lá foi ele contornando a curva do rio. Temendo que minha linha se enrroscasse nos arbustos que encobriam a costa, eu corri pela água congelanda, tremendo enquanto a minha camisa se encharcava com os pingos – minha vara já em formato de “U”. Derepente, a linha ficou solta. Eu soltei um gritinho agudo alarmado (que eu só conto por ser um amante de comédias) enquanto eu olhava para a minha vara voltando ao seu formato original. De cabeça baixa, eu vagarosamente comecei a seguir a linha pela água, na esperança de que o peixe houvesse ao menos me deixado a dignidade da minha isca. Quando eu contornei a curva do rio, eu repentinamente fiquei paralizado. Lá estava o meu peixe. Ele ainda estava preso à linha. Mas ele estava se debatendo acima da água. Ele estava se debatendo… na boa de um urso gigante. O que eu acho engraçado ao me recordar da cena é que meu primeiro pensamento não foi “salve-se quem puder” ou “merda, eu vou morrer”. Em vez disso, o primeiro pensamento que tive envolvia a mesma irritação que tive quando eu vi que meus livros haviam sido roubados. Claro que me levou menos de um segundo para que eu caisse na real e pensasse um mais apropriado “merda, eu vou morrer”.
E lá estava eu, tremendo e parecendo um herói patético segurando o que seria a minha patética espada. Fiquei parado, assistindo à besta gigante comer o peixe, uma penitência pelo pecado de minha presença. O dilema era, o urso ainda não havia notado que eu estava lá. Sabendo que alarmar essa criatura não seria muito esperto de minha parte, eu vagarosamente recuei um passo por vez. Temendo que a batida do meu coração iria me denunciar, eu consegui chegar a um arbusto na margem do rio que eu esperava conseguisse me esconder. Uma coisa interessante sobre os rios no Alasca é que eles tem muitas rochas. E algumas dessas bastardas escorregadias não perdem a chance de derrubar vítimas desavisadas que ousam pisar nelas. Hoje era o meu dia de sorte e lá fui eu para dentro d´água. A minha memória depois disso é embaçada. Lembro de ter me levantado. O urso, agora sabendo que eu estava ali, olhou diretamente para mim – seu corpo inflando com os músculos tensos, os olhos escuros e vermelhos. Eu virei para correr, mas como eu estava imerso até o joelho indo contra a forte correnteza do rio, me senti como em um daqueles sonhos em que não interessa o quanto de esforço, pânico ou perseverança você coloque, é impossível alcançar até o maior dos fans do McDonald´s. Ouvindo o grunhido crescer atrás de mim, eu me virei para encarar o meu destruidor… até que me lembrei do revólver 44´ que eu carregava na cintura. Rapidamente puxei aquele pesado pedaço de metal, apontei na direção daquela mistura de sprai de água, garras e pelo que vinham na minha direção… e atirei.
Eu me lembro de só ter dado dois tiros, mas ao olhar o tambor da arma no dia seguinte ví que, sim, eu havia dado todos os seis tiros. Eu não lembro muito do que aconteceu. Só do coração batendo forte, a respiração ofegante, o frio e depois, desmaiando no chão do meu dormitório algum tempo depois. Eu havia entrado em choque… do tipo em que o seu corpo toma conta de tudo para você em casos de emergência. Eu sobrevivi; ou pelo menos alguém me fez sobreviver. Talvez o choque seja quando Deus assume o comando do seu corpo por um tempo, dirigindo a sua vida para que você não sofra um acidente. Eu não sei. Mas quando eu finalmente tive coragem de voltar ao rio dois dias depois para pegar os meus sapatos e a minha vara de pescar, eu encontrei as sobras da minha ação na forma de uma montanha de sangue, pelos negros e dentes afiados. Uma bala bem no meio do olho esquerdo. E deixe-me dizer uma coisa, balas geralmente não param um urso em ataque… seus crânios são muito espessos e os músculos muito pesados. Agora, enquanto eu olhava para o meu abate naquele dia, poderia ter refletido sobre a minha vida, sobre o porquê de eu ter sido salvo ou qual propósito eu agora teria que cumprir na vida, mas em vez disso eu peguei a minha faca e, depois de algumas horas de dificuldade de principiante, eu tinha em mãos um casaco de pele de urso. No dia seguinte, eu vendi este altamente ilegal produto para um velho amigo esquimó por US$500 o que, ironicamente, acabou custeando a compra dos meus livros que haviam sido roubados. E este é o fim da história, a moral sendo: há uma solução para cada problema, mesmo que você tenha que matar um urso para encontrá-la.
An Alaskan Solution
It was my second year in Alaska. I was 20. My classes at the University of Alaska in the town of Fairbanks would begin the following week. I had already moved into my dorm room and on this particular day I went down to the college bookstore to purchase an irritating amount of overpriced engineering textbooks. Upon my return to my residents’ hall I set my $500 bag of books down behind me as I pondered what snack to purchase from one of the dispensing machines in the commons. Deciding on a Snickers bar I turned to leave only to find I wouldn’t need to lug my heavy books any farther. They were gone. Stolen books are not something a poor college student has any appreciation for and, as was my only option at the time, I found myself bounding down hallways and across campus in attempt to hunt down the dirty crook who had deemed my assets worth taking advantage of. Two hours later, in an angry sweat, I concluded my futile quest with the slam of my dorm room door and a slew of profanities that could paint a wall red.
I was angry. And I knew I had to get out. I had to escape the confines of this cheating and conniving world. I had to get out into the grand wilderness—the thing I came to Alaska for in the first place. Grabbing my fishing pole, the half melted Snickers bar, and my 44’ revolver I bought off some old guy (away from the snooping eyes of government regulation I proudly add), I headed out my door. My college sat on the edge of the world…forest and tundra for hundreds of miles northward, captured only by the civilization of the Purdue Bay oil rigs of the Arctic Ocean. Hiking hastily through millions of small, bent spruce trees, like a forest of old people, I finally came to my favorite fishing spot: the remains of an old mountain cut in two by the forceful thrust of a dark stream—a melted diamond, crystal clear, and beautiful. By then, the giant rolling shapes of the Alaskan interior had put me back in my place of insignificance and I was calmer. There was no one to be mad at out here. Unhooking my line from my pole I began to cast.
It was still. The little birds that flew through the air quietly confirmed that I was indeed alone out here. Positioning myself against a white birch tree I casted and watched my line smoothly glide through the trickling glitter between the rocks. Pulling my lure from the water I marveled at the fact that fish actually found themselves willing to bite such an ugly thing. I really wasn’t expecting to catch anything but as expectation always has it, it wasn’t long before I was fighting my first fish. And it was big. From the glowing white shape of it, I knew I had myself a handsome, silver salmon—one of the best tasting fish in the world. My pole bending towards the water, my arms tense but steady, I pulled, reeled, fought, let out some line, pulled, reeled, fought, and let out some more line. Problem was, with each foot of line I reeled in, I had to let out two more in order to keep the fish from breaking it. The fish was strong and it was getting away around a bend in the river. In a desperate attempt to avoid this from happening, I kicked off my shoes and, with socks on, jumped into the shallow river. Immediately I questioned the wisdom of my move as the icy water clawed at my legs. But the fish was getting away and I was determined to bring it in.
The fish moved quickly using the river current to propel itself as far away from my lustful grasp as possible. Around the bend in the river it went. Terrified that my line might get caught in the brush lining the shore I ran through the icy water wincing as the spray soaked my shirt—my pole in a precarious “U” shape. Suddenly my line went slack. I let a high pitched squeal of alarm (I only speak of here out of my reverence for comedy) as I watched my fishing rod spring to its original, straight shape. My head down, I slowly shuffled through the water reeling in my droopy line hoping that the fish at least left me the dignity of my lure. As I rounded the bend in the river I suddenly found myself paralyzed. There was my fish. It was still on my line. But it was hovering above the water. It hovered there…in the mouth of giant grizzly. What strikes me funny now thinking back is that my first thought wasn’t “run for your life” or “shit, I’m going to die,” rather the very first thought I had involved the same ping of irritation I had when I realized my books had been stolen. I was just mad that this uncharitable bear wanted to claim ownership of my prize. Of course it took but a second for my thoughts to revert back to the more appropriate: “shit, I’m going to die.”
There I was. Like a shivering, undercompensated hero holding a pathetic excuse for a sword, I stood staring at this giant beast eating the fish I now gladly presumed a proper penance for the sin of my presence. Dilemma was, the bear didn’t recognize I was there yet. Knowing that startling this creature would not be wise, I slowly backed one little step at a time Terrified that my throbbing heart beat would give me away, I made my way towards a bush on the shore I hoped could hide me from view. The funny thing with Alaskan streams however is that there are lots of rocks. And some of these slippery little bastards enjoy the rare, millennial opportunity to trip up any unwary victim that dares tread on them. Today was my lucky day of course and down I went with a splash. The rest is pretty much a blur. I remember standing up. The bear, now knowing I was there, looked directly at me—its body inflating with tense muscles, eyes dark and red. I turned to run, but since I was running knee deep against the current of an angry river I found myself in one of those dreams where no matter how much effort, panic or perseverance I put into my forward movement, my speed could barely rival that of McDonald’s biggest fan. Hearing the grunting momentum behind me I turned to meet my destroyer…until I remembered my 44’ resting on my hip. Clawing at the snap I pull the heavy piece of metal up, pointed at the spray of water, fur and claws bounding towards me…and fired.
I only remember firing twice, but looking at my cylinder a day later I confirmed that, yes, I had fired all six bullets. I don’t remember much about the actual event. Just a beating heart, panting, coldness, and collapsing on the floor of my dorm room some time later. I had gone into shock…the kind where your body takes over for you in times of emergency. I survived; or at least someone did the surviving for me. Perhaps shock is when God takes over your body for a while—steers your life so you don’t crash. I don’t know. But when I gathered the courage to go back out to the river two days later to collect my shoes and fishing pole, I found the leftovers of my actions in the form of a bloody mountain of dark hair and sharp teeth. Bullet right through the left eye. And let me tell you, bullets usually don’t stop the charging mass of a bear…their skull is too thick and muscle too heavy. Now, while staring at my kill that day, I could have reminisced about my life, about why I was saved or what purpose I now had to fulfill, but instead I whipped out my knife and after a couple hours of novice hacking I had myself a crudely cut bear hide. Next day, I sold these highly illegal remains to an old, retired Eskimo friend of mine for $500 which, as logic would have it, funded the re-buying of my stolen textbooks. And that’s pretty much the end of this tale. Moral being: there is a solution to every problem—even if you have to kill an Alaskan grizzly to find one.
